


The Evolution of John Watson

by exbex



Series: Jim/John and the aftermath [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Obsessive Behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock ponders the changes in John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Evolution of John Watson

In the time that he’s known John, Sherlock has spent a number of hours restructuring his mind palace to accommodate his friend.

Information about John is stored in the palace’s mausoleum. Sherlock insists that this is for entirely practical reasons, not emotional. There was a time when he was able to convince himself of the veracity of that belief.

There are several smaller tombs within the mausoleum. Most of the tombs are sparse with information, as Sherlock has erected several to cover John’s entire lifespan thus far, and, while he does a great deal of speculating to fill in the various blanks about John, who only occasionally talks about his life before meeting Sherlock, he lacks concrete information.

One of the tombs contains Soldier John, and is quite full, and another tomb contains the John who existed after meeting Sherlock for the first time, the John who existed before Moriarty kidnapped him. Sherlock spends nearly as much time there as he does in the tomb constructed for the John who exists now, post-kidnapping and Moriarty’s death.

John’s physique has changed. He’s trimmer now, and more muscular, having adopted an exercise regime that he sticks to religiously. He has gone from being someone who seems to enjoy meals to eating a very basic diet consisting of food that looks to be about as flavorful and exciting to bite into as an edition of The Times.

John’s clothing has changed. Now he dresses as if he asked assistants at department stores to find clothing that was well-fitted and acceptably stylish while still being unremarkable. It’s not a dramatic change, but is a far enough cry from the jeans and jumpers that he used to wear as to be noticeable.

John assists Sherlock with his private cases, but never accompanies Sherlock to the Yard. John is visibly afraid of Lestrade and especially Mycroft, and he doesn’t try to hide his fear. When he is around either man, but especially Mycroft, he doesn’t speak or make eye contact, and he trembles slightly around Mycroft. Lestrade gives John a wide berth and Mycroft doesn’t come near 221b any longer. The latter is a small mercy.

Unless he has worked a double shift or has been on a longer case with Sherlock, John tidies the flat constantly. John never updates his blog. Once Sherlock asked why and John looked at him, bewildered, for several seconds before answering, “it’s rubbish, obviously. I’m not a writer.” John’s computer is no longer password protected, and his search history consists mainly of medical sites. His correspondence is scant. John never watches telly, not even football or rugby, never goes to the pubs, does not drink coffee or tea or beer. When he’s not working or sleeping or exercising or cleaning, he’s reading the British Medical Journal and The Economist. Sometimes he sits and listens to Sherlock play the violin, and sometimes he stares out the window, almost catatonic.

John doesn’t banter or tease or joke, except on rare and unexpected occasions. He does engage in small talk nearly every day, particularly with Mrs. Hudson and usually Sherlock as well. He does not date and there is no indication that he has any sexual interest in anyone. He still, occasionally, sits Sherlock down to watch a film.

John never complains about anything. Not Sherlock’s experiments, nor odd habits or hours, not the Tube’s erratic services, not his job.

Sherlock spends hours in this mausoleum, thinking. Sometimes after he falls asleep thinking about John, he has nightmares in which he returns to the flat to find John dead of self-inflicted wounds.

He startles awake from one such nightmare now. He’s still wearing his coat, having returned from the Yard to settle unceremoniously into his thinking pose on the couch. John is standing in front of him, wrapped in a homemade blanket that he acquired some time ago and often lounges about the flat in it. When Sherlock inquired about it once, John simply stated that it was his ‘comfort object.’ “Thirty-five percent of British adults report sleeping with teddy bears Sherlock; I’m entitled to my blanket.”

“Are you alright?” John asks, clearly having just woken up. Sherlock glances out the window; it’s gone dark. “Fine,” he replies, easing himself into a sitting position.

“Did you just come back from the Yard?” John sits down beside Sherlock, their shoulders and legs nearly touching. It’s John’s greatest peculiarity. He’s afraid of Lestrade and Mycroft and shies away from touch, preferring to walk to his job at A&E rather than take the crowded Tube. But he has no qualms about Sherlock.

“Yes,” and, in an attempt to distract John, “the mother confessed. The police are searching for the body.”

“Ah,” John replies. “Is that what you were dreaming about? You were shouting.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, too quickly. He looks at John but sees no indication that John suspects him, even though John knows him too well, knows that Sherlock’s interests in cases rarely stray beyond the process of solving them.

“Well, you should come to bed. You’ll be sore tomorrow if you sleep on the couch.” John stands and looks expectantly at Sherlock.

“Were you sleeping in my bed?” It’s another peculiarity of John’s. Sherlock suspects that, for some reason, John suffers from fewer of his own nightmares when he sleeps in Sherlock’s bed, and Sherlock doesn’t question it, just finds himself lying next to John, not exactly touching, but not avoiding one another either, John wrapped tightly in his blanket.

“Yes,” John replies, as if using one’s flatmate’s bed is well within the realms of social norms. “Are you coming?”

“Yes.” They both lie awake for some time, both pretending not to notice the other’s sleeplessness. John finally drifts off first, and Sherlock obsesses, wondering how many tombs to build in his mind, hoping that there’s at least one more to construct to represent John post-Moriarty.


End file.
